


Haven't Been Able to Sleep. Are You Coming Back?

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Series: Phototropic [5]
Category: Starfighter Eclipse
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Major Character Injury, Original Character(s), Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 18:38:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7981969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The introduction of a new Fighter/Navigator pair on board the <em>Kepler</em> proves more difficult than anyone—except perhaps Hayden—anticipated, generally causing Encke a headache, Selene to worry, and Praxis to wonder what's the deal with new recruits these days. But when Loki—the newest Fighter who never really left the colonies on Mars—casts a wandering eye over Selene, Helios doesn't know what else to do except to strike first.</p><p>Or: Maybe Selene was right to treat Helios like glass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haven't Been Able to Sleep. Are You Coming Back?

**Author's Note:**

> Hoookay. Hello, everyone!
> 
> After the semi-fluff that was "To Salvation, to Oblivion, Supreme," my brain chucked a huge wad of angst at me (inspiration-wise, I mean!) and this here is the result. It was also heavily inspired by the lyrics of Alice Boman's "Waiting" (the title comes from this as well).
> 
> As for how task-name Loki knows things . . . about Praxis, for example . . . I guess I envision him as being in the CO's good graces, even though he's new. (Interpret as you will?)
> 
> And I confess: Helios gave me some trouble: he seemed a little OOC here, given how I'd been portraying him up until this point, but then I got to thinking of some of his choices in SF:E. And Helios can, to my recollection, actually be pretty possessive of Selene if he thinks someone's hitting on "his" Navigator (I'm thinking of Praxis and—oh, there was someone else whose name I can't recall). So maybe it's not so OOC after all?
> 
> Oh. The Russian! I don't speak it—though I wish I did, because I think Dostoyevsky would be even more amazing if I could just read him in his native tongue. This having been said, Helios' phrase to Loki ("Idi syuda!") to the best of my cursory research means "Come here!"—both an invitation to a fight and a pretty solid threat, i.e., "I'm gonna kick your ass."
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Reviews are always appreciated, and more than that--thank you all for your support so far!! <3 Also, I have no idea what's going to happen next in the series, so if there's anything Selene/Helios-related you want to see from me, do let me know! :)

The cadence of the Fighter's heart, the low resounding ocean's echo of his breath, was what lulled Selene to sleep and woke him in the morning, often long before the _Kepler_ 's day-shift lights snapped on. He loved its slow, syncopated rhythm—and how the breath would hitch, the heart would rush, when his hands wandered certain places, caressing sleeping, twitching skin.

Encke and Keeler had summoned them this morning— _early_ in the morning, as it were: their datapads had flashed a curt "Briefing room at 07:00" and that was that. Selene had glanced at the time and pushed the Fighter's hands away—reluctantly—reasoning that if they went to sleep just then they'd get six hours.

Nothing doing in the morning, either.

"Let's just stay here," Helios murmured, lips half-pressed into both the pillow and the Navigator's collarbone. "They won't miss us if we're late."

"No, Afon. Come on, get up." Selene touched his Fighter's cheek, smiling slightly at the stubble there, wishing that they could, indeed, just stay: the body, much-beloved, which lay pressed against his own invited him. "Since they helped us, hm, we should take extra care to stay on their good side . . ."

"Tch. Bullshit."

" _Up_ , Afon."

Selene's gently-lilting voice could slip easily into sleep-laced sweet-nothings, but his pulling the blanket off the bunk could not.

_Damn it._

* * *

The briefing room, usually cramped with bodies, now seemed entirely too large as it wrapped itself around Encke, Keeler and the two shadows who stood to either side. Helios paused in the doorway, studying the figures backlit by the Alliance's holographic seal. _We picked up new recruits at the Alliance's Earth Orbital?_

"Helios, Selene, I want you to meet Loki and Sigyn."

Selene wove through the rows of chairs, Helios dropping down the center aisle; there was something in the way they held themselves—the Navigator just behind Keeler, the Fighter a step away from Encke—that unsettled them. And the names—Helios might not be aware of it, but Selene was disconcerted: the trickster-god of the ancient Norsemen and his wife?

 _Not that I should read so much into that,_ he mused, running his eyes over the young man, sturdy but fear-tied. _Selene was a goddess, too. (And, ugh, "Cain" and "Abel"? The Commanders really are sadistic . . . "Praxis" and "Ethos" at least have poetry between them.)_

"Hello," he offered slowly, holding out a hand. "It's good to have you on board the _Kepler._ "

Out of the corner of his eye he watched the task-named Loki glance from Helios to him. There was a smile at his lips, his eyes were bright—he seemed friendly, anyway. Why, then, this trembling in Sigyn?

"They've just been assigned to one another and the _Kepler_ ," Encke continued finally, shifting on his feet; this wasn't going quite as smoothly as he'd hoped. "Obviously it's a difficult transition—we've all been there. You two, not so long ago."

"That's true . . ." Helios moved to stand beside Selene—to his chagrin, with Loki following, slipping to his Navigator's other side. _Too close!_ a beast in the back of his mind cried out. _Get back!—_ because this wasn't like when Praxis had a habit of sidling up to the slender man—there was an easy banter there, but this—

Selene shot him a glance. _Don't be paranoid, Afon. He's posturing, which is disgusting, but it's fine. I'm fine._

"We want you two to show them around," Keeler interjected wearily. "They know where their bunks are and that sort of thing—Selene, show Sigyn the bridge; Helios, take Loki to the training room. Introduce them to their comrades. Get them off to a good start."

"Why?" Loki's voice was friendly, was bored, was a touch too sharp for Helios' taste. "It's a small ship, neh? We'll find our way—won't we, Sigyn?"

Wordlessly the Navigator, still ensnared in Keeler's shadow, nodded.

Helplessly Selene looked from Keeler to Encke and back again. "Are these our orders?"

"Technically? From Hayden? No. We just thought—"

"Our best team could show them around," Encke finished Keeler's thought, forcing a smile that didn't fit his face. "Make it easier, you know?"

"That's kind of you—but we won't be needing it." Loki turned, nodding to his superiors, motioning to Sigyn—pressing up against Selene as he pivoted to walk away. "Your _best_ team, you say?" He paused, appraising Helios, a sneer pulled across his lips. "I'd beg to differ, really . . ." His eyes lit on Selene, who by this time was glaring fit to kill. " _You_ could do much better."

Helios' hands clenched into fists, the words out before he had a chance to think: "Fuck you!"

"That's enough!" Encke strode up the center aisle, grabbing Loki's shoulder. His jaw was set and the pulse jumped at his throat, and all of a sudden Helios understood partly why Encke was, for all intents and purposes, the alpha dog amongst the Fighters: in reality it had nothing to do with rank. "Goddamn it! Helios, Loki, come on, we're going to PT. This . . . bullshit . . . Ngh. Come on."

"Afon—kick his ass for me, would you?" Selene whispered as Helios threw him a helpless glance. Rarely had he seen his Navigator look so furious—and the lines of worry in his face weren't just his Fighter: no, he thought also of the boy—Sigyn—(to be so openly rejected)—

"Tch. You bet."

"Helios—let's go!"

"Right, sorry, Encke—"

* * *

When the three of them were gone, Keeler shook his head. "I'm so sorry, Sigyn. I don't know where your Loki's from, but sometimes the transition is . . . well, it's hard no matter what, but Fighters typically have a more difficult time adjusting—"

"He isn't _mine_."

A whisper, soft, a rasp, a wary turning of dark eyes. Selene shuddered involuntarily, reminded suddenly of Deimos.

"Hey." He reached out a conciliatory hand—a thing he'd longed to do for Deimos, many times—a thing he'd never done because the man carried a knife. But this Sigyn . . . "It's okay. You don't have to like him from the get-go."

They began to work their way to the bridge, Keeler bidding them farewell before heading to the CO's office.

"How's your compatibility score?"

"It's okay, I guess. I don't know. All theoretical, you see? We haven't had the chance to run a sim together."

"No, you wouldn't have." Selene motioned him into a lift. "Look, if you ever need someone to talk to—it can get lonely. Especially before you get to know everyone."

"We'll never get along."

"You and Loki?"

Sigyn shook his head.

"It's still new. Believe me, it takes time. Helios and I—it took a bit for us to get to know each other. It's like anything: it never happens overnight."

"He . . . I don't know." A pause, just before they entered the bridge, before the lights and screens and relays and the chattering of keys would require their attention, undivided. "You—uhm—you and your Fighter—"

Reading the blush seeping slowly across the pale, pale cheeks, Selene offered him a sympathetic glance. "You don't have to love Loki that way, you know. It happens—often—but . . . It's not a requirement. Relax, Sigyn. Come on—let me show you to your station . . . that would help?"

"Please. Something—something that I know, that I can do . . ." The poor kid seemed on the verge of tears.

But soon Sigyn, so much like Selene—and to the latter's immense relief—found solace in the console-screens and endless streams of code, in the logistics of the _Kepler_ 's data and the quiet, steady camaraderie which usually lay thick upon the bridge.

* * *

"I hope you understand. That wasn't meant to be a punishment . . . for you."

Helios smiled weakly, wearily, blinking through thick strands of hair and sweat, gingerly prodding at a bruise bloomed across his cheek. "It's okay, Encke."

Loki had long gone to the showers; the other Fighters who'd been the victims of Encke's savage drill milled around, skulking, wondering what in the hell _they'd_ done to deserve it. "I just needed to . . . he needed to get off his high horse and work off the aggression."

"I hope." Helios threw Cain a glance, who passed by close enough to hear them. "Sometimes it works like that, I guess."

"And it might not. I know." Encke dabbed at his face with a towel—a delicate motion which Helios was almost sure he'd picked up from Keeler. "Listen, Helios, there's always the political dynamic between Fighter/Navigator pairs. The power struggle of it if . . . It's brutal—or it can be. Sometimes teams—"

"They might work well together, but that's not entirely the point if they're at each other's throats . . ."

_Phobos and Deimos—poor guy—_

"So you know it's not unheard of for a Fighter to end up with someone else's Navigator."

"Hey!" Helios surged to his feet, all weariness forgotten, the beast in his head licking at its lips. "Hey, don't you fucking _dare_ —"

"—Which Selene would never do. Helios, calm _down_."

_Fuck!_

Still seething, he eyed Encke shrewdly from a distance. "So what the hell was the point of that?"

"I'll let that slide—but watch your mouth. Listen. Selene needs to be careful. Praxis teases him, but this one—this Loki isn't someone I'd want him—or you—to tangle with."

"Then how the fuck did he pass the psych exam, if he's a fucking psychopath?"

"Some fly under the radar. That's the truth. I mean, even Cain's—"

"That's not the f—ugh, that's not the _point_ , Encke." Helios drew a shuddering breath, determined now not to emulate the aforementioned loose-cannon of a Fighter. "Listen. What you said—that's serious. You really think Loki—"

"It might have been posturing. You get that, I think? But I wanted you to know: even Keeler's not so sure about him. Hayden liked him, so . . ."

Encke took one look at Helios' face. "Off the record, then—go on."

Helios exhaled; the words were a whisper, one that only his superior could hear. "Fuck Hayden."

To his surprise, Encke chuckled lowly, shook his head.

"Okay, that's it. We're back on the record now, you hear? I've had my say and you've had yours—go get cleaned up and meet Selene for lunch." Over one shoulder, the head Fighter threw Helios one final glance. "Just keep it in the back of your head, kid, that's all I'm asking."

Distinctly feeling that Encke could have done him a better favor than to fill his head with _that_ , Helios stumbled from the Fighters' training room, past the VR capsules, out into the hall—towards the showers and, he hoped, a chance to catch Selene over the rationed shit the Alliance dared call food.

* * *

But it wasn't until well after dark, such as it were, that Selene slipped into their bunk, nudging him awake: Helios had tried to wait up for the Navigator but Encke's drill and the seriousness of his thoughts on Sigyn's Fighter dropped him into oblivion. Or nearly so—seeing Selene's silhouette peer at him anxiously left him wondering if he'd been dreaming. If his nightmares were as Selene's had been—of losing him—

Or—seeing him in someone else's arms—

"Ho, Afon."

His name was cool water, a soothing sound against the heat and head-pounding. Helios shifted over, let the Navigator settle in against the wall, vaguely wondering just when it was that Selene had dropped all pretenses—in private, anyway—of using his task-name. And why he was still, only, "Selene".

"You were late tonight."

"Mm. Sigyn wanted . . . an escort, if you will."

"A what? That word . . . Selene—?"

"Heh. Mind out of the gutter, love." Selene's hands were almost cold against his chest, his shoulders, kneading at the tension; he ducked his head to gently kiss the bruises on the Fighter's cheek, his jaw. "Ech, that Encke . . . Here, roll over . . ."

Head buried in the pillow, Helios groaned as the Navigator began to rub his back in strong, slow motions. "Fine, Forget it. Where I come from, it . . . means something. Anyway. So this Sigyn wanted you to keep him company."

"Just that, Afon. He didn't want to be alone at supper, he didn't want to go back to his bunk with Loki, so . . . I stayed with him for a while."

"Loki! That fucking . . ."

"Afon—"

"Well, he is! He looked at you, he touched you. You heard him, didn't you? He _wants_ you."

"If he really means it. Mm." Selene sighed, leaned down, kissed the Fighter's shoulder, began to shift minutely until he felt the muscled body tremble. "Don't worry so much, Afon."

"Don't _you_ worry—I won't ever let him—"

"Shh. It's late. We're both tired, love . . . just leave it, leave it . . . it's not worth it now . . ."

Helios rolled back over, cupping Selene's angled face in his hands, pulling him closer, taking savage, almost possessive delight in the Navigator's need for him, for _him_ , the singing blood in his own veins. He was sure indeed that Selene would never be so shallow as to bed another—but unsure, all the same, of that free radical, the variable, the one named after a deceitful, sometimes-clever god who'd been his better in PT.

* * *

The beast didn't let him sleep. The drill, Ecnke's warning, Selene's familiar warmth and nearness—innocence, it seemed—drove weariness from limb, from mind. Helios slept the more soundly of the two—it was Selene who took a while to drift off, who was always the first wake—but not tonight. Not when Loki's eyes glared at him through the dark, when all he could see was the sneer pulling at his lips, or the cold, calculating look he wore when his fists had struck skin, struck bone—when it had taken a moment for Encke's bayed "Stand down!" to register—

He supposed his heart should go out to Sigyn, but most of all he worried for Selene.

And what he'd probably never tell the Navigator—never, never, because some things were better left buried deep—deeper than Selene had dropped the _Swift_ —was that, on Mars, he'd seen men look at Valentina with that same savage hunger. If you couldn't satisfy your belly, there were other things to satisfy: Helios wouldn't deny that after V had left, when he'd been older, he'd begun to understand—why he'd found himself in strangers' arms for no more than a night—

They never talked about it, not even when he was older and could piece together memories, could learn the stats and know that his sister was among them.

Now, almost clutching at Selene, he slowly exhaled into the darkness. The dear one next to him whom he could, without a doubt, protect—

_If he looks at you again, I swear—_

* * *

Selene didn't see in Sigyn what he was sure he'd find at breakfast: in fact, the greenling seemed almost buoyant: he still eyed the mess hall warily but the tray was steady in his hands; he didn't shy away from sitting with the others—Ethos, Abel—when they waved them to a table. He nearly laughed, a quiet sound, a shifting of his shoulders and a flashing of his teeth. The Navigator sighed; maybe he and Helios were wrong.

A shadow dropped across the table; Selene glanced up, half-expecting to tease Helios for taking so long in the shower—but it was Loki, amicably smiling, reaching out to steal a piece of toast from Sigyn's plate.

 _Be a diplomat_ , he grasped wildly at the idea, _don't be a dick. If Loki's really a decent human being and Sigyn's happy then there's no reason to—_

"Fighters have their own rations." His spoon was jabbed towards the right-hand wall. "Let your Navigator eat in peace."

Loki raised an eyebrow, a triangle of toast poking from the corner of his mouth. "I know. I wanted toast."

"It's fine, Selene." Sigyn touched his arm; Ethos and Abel, trading glances, muttered something about getting to the bridge, gathered their half-eaten rations, slipped away. "Really. We—we talked last night. Can you believe it? Really. We were just—we were scared—"

"So I'm just supposed to ignore what he said about you? About me? About my Fighter? Least of all that he stole your food. Do you understand what that even means, where he's come from?"

"It wasn't like that—"

Selene was trembling; sometimes Helios had dropped hints at what living in the colonies was like; Loki had likely come from somewhere similar; to steal food, of all things, was worse than an insult—on the streets, it was as good as death. Just because they were on the _Kepler_ now, were fed, were safe—such as it were, given the Colterons—didn't mean that one could get away with it.

A pair of eyes caught his across the room. _Deimos?_

The strange one shook his head, looked down at his plate.

_At least someone else saw it._

"Look." Selene drained the last of his coffee with more haste than he'd intended. "I'll see you on the bridge, Sigyn."

"You haven't finished, though. The MO'll—"

"Well, I'm not staying here."

When Loki made his way back to the table with a loaded tray, it was to find Helios' Navigator gone and his own wearing an expression of wounded disbelief.

* * *

"Hey!"

Helios was at the bench; Praxis was his spotter—and a good thing, as the stronger man's hands deftly slipped to help catch the weight he nearly dropped.

What the hell was Loki doing here?

"Ngh," Praxis muttered, "here, just call it good—he wants to talk—"

"Fuck, that was a good set I had going—"

"Hey. Helios."

Wiping sweat from his eyes with an equally moist hand, Helios, still straddling the bench, eyed the newest Fighter with ill-disguised revulsion. "What?"

"We need to talk."

"Like hell we do. Look." Helios stood up, swinging his arms, trying to work the tension loose. Praxis, sensing something boiling, modestly stepped back: he was protective, to a point, of both Selene and Helios by-proxy, but—

"Look, let me just be clear with you. The shit you pulled yesterday—"

"What, because I said he'd do better with me as his Fighter? Isn't that true? Have you _seen_ my scores?"

Helios felt a flush spread across his face. "I don't give a fuck what your scores are. Selene is _mine._ "

 _Oh._ Praxis clenched his teeth. _Oh, fuck. Helios—don't pull this bullshit—don't—I've seen fucking enough of it with Cain—not you—_

"No one's _anyone's,_ mal'chick." Loki was smiling, though, smiling in a way that made Praxis' skin crawl: he knew he was baiting Helios, deliberately; shit, he'd already taken him in PT yesterday—what else did he want? "See, that's why I think he'd do better with me, hm? I think Sigyn's equal to your standards. But Selene—well—with me, you see, I'm not just the better Fighter. I'm a better human being. He'd never be _mine_ , do you understand?"

"The fuck do you even know about us? Nothing!"

Praxis stepped up from the shadows. "Okay, both of you—"

"No . . ."

Loki let his eyes wander over Praxis, lingering on his single eye. "I know how that happened. If you can't even save your Navigator—well—you don't have a right to tell us much, do you?"

The color drained from the latter's face. Speechless, still as stone, too wary of Encke's shadow to take a swing in public—

Helios, however, didn't care.

Grabbing Loki by the shoulders, he threw his weight into the taller man, the momentum carrying them into the hall. They were not fools: breathlessly they found the lift, slid in, rode down a floor and stumbled to the cargo hold. The door wouldn't lock behind them but they didn't care—anywhere, anywhere where Encke might not find them easily—

For a moment there was silence. Neither really knew what to say, really knew why they were on the verge of blows, of fists and even teeth and blood and violence—why the sum of their training was stripped away and they were nothing more than desperate men on the streets in some half-forgotten colony on Mars—when nothing mattered, nothing, nothing but the _rage_ —

_Valentina—_

_(—Selene?)_

Loki watched as Helios squared his feet, as his gloved hands clenched, as a raw, raw light lit up his eyes. "I wouldn't fuck your Navigator, mal'chick. Not unless he wanted it. So don't _look_ at me like that."

Whatever Anglic words he'd meant to fling back to that motherfucking _creep_ were _gone_.

"Idi syuda!"

* * *

"Shit—I didn't mean—I didn't mean—"

Loki had a split lip and a blackened eye and was favoring several broken fingers—probably some broken ribs—but Praxis didn't care. He saw only Helios—

"What the _fuck_ did you do?"

* * *

"Will you tell me what the _hell_ is going on?"

They'd had the good fortune to stumble into Encke, who took one look at Loki, hands wrenched behind his back by Praxis—at the blood, the fear—and knew immediately that something was horribly wrong. "I didn't mean—" the greenling Fighter kept whimpering, "I didn't know—"

"Who is it? Where is he?"

"Helios. The cargo hold."

_Oh, fuck._

Turning on his heel, thrown over one shoulder: "Ngh. Get him to the brig, you understand?"

* * *

Keeler stared at the terse message Encke had sent him, the pixels crisp, the words taking longer than they should to sink in, to _mean_ something.

"Helios in Med Bay. Bad. Get Selene ASAP."

_What the hell is going on?_

All-too-clearly then the day washed over him—how Loki looked at Selene, threatening—subtly, but so—how Encke had sulked back from PT, irate and anxious—Sigyn, ironically, seemed just fine today, all things considered—the one they'd worried over most—

Perhaps that's how they'd lost track of Helios, of what was being done and said of him—

Keeler exhaled, a hard, hard sound, feeling a headache building just behind his eyes, little lights snapping wide at him, devouring, even in the darkness. On legs which threatened to send him tumbling, he slid through the bridge to Selene's workstation. Leaning close—

"Come on," he murmured gently, reaching out to still the swift, sure motions of the Navigator's hands across the console's keys. "Come on. You need to come with me."

"I'm halfway through—"

But one look at his superior left Selene with a sour taste in his mouth. This wasn't Keeler telling him to take a break, as usual. This was—

"What's wrong? Keeler—"

"Just follow me—"

* * *

In the lift, Selene fought to keep his breathing steady, to remind himself that he wasn't trapped by the sleek, metallic walls.

"It's Helios." Keeler shot him a glance. "I don't know what's happened, but it's—but it's him. I—Encke said—"

"Just shut up, Keeler. Please." Hearing it, hearing it from someone who didn't really know—God, it was far worse than whatever he'd see in a moment. But he knew, he knew, because Afon was a Fighter—because Afon still had the colony running in his blood—because he'd _felt_ the rage pouring off of him when Loki crossed a line—

But Loki was powerful, more-so even than Afon—

What if he, like Deimos, had smuggled in a knife?

_No. No—_

The lift spat them out like a pair of seeds; Selene sprinted down the hall, vision blurred by tears—he didn't care—his feet _knew_ and they carried him—

* * *

Praxis, breathless from running from the brig, caught the hurtling Navigator in mid-flight, holding tight to the shaking, fighting form; the fists and feet which flailed and kicked at him were nothing; far, far worse was the awful _keening_ —

Selene choked against his chest. "Goddamn it, Praxis, let me go—I have to go—"

"They're stabilizing him—you can't be in there—"

"I'm trained—I need—fuck, Praxis, what if—"

"Shh. The MO and his staff can handle this. You'd be in the way, Selene, you see? He means too much to you . . . just stay here, stay here with me. Come here; I've got you; you're not alone . . ."

Praxis pulled them against the wall, sank down, let Selene—now thoroughly exhausted, fear-sick, restless—slump against his shoulder. He was not screaming—keening—was not even crying anymore: the cold, hard truth of it had settled and now there really was nothing to do but wait.

* * *

He slept, in fitful turns, for random intervals—two minutes, five, maybe even ten. It wasn't really sleep, but his brain playing tricks, his brain trying to save him from the world. His dreams—he didn't know—were dark, were sharp, were savage. Were of a deep, deep loneliness he couldn't even name.

* * *

A machine, screaming through the Med Bay's doors, woke him. Praxis shifted, swearing. Through the noise of orchestrated-chaos Selene caught words he recognized—

Which meant not-quite-a-flatline but damn close enough and a hole in the chest and—

Three times an electric current whined.

"He can't die," he whispered, head buried in Praxis' chest. "Afon—"

Praxis bit his lip, wanted to say something, couldn't, couldn't, because he remembered what it was to lose Logos—when there was nothing he could do—and all he managed now was to rock Selene, to rock him gently, and to pray—if there were still prayers he knew—that Helios would be okay.

* * *

"Selene?"

_The MO . . ._

Selene looked up, blinded, sickened by the lights, by the shadow of Praxis, by the form in white-and-grey with cerulean eyes which knelt there, too, which laid a hand upon his shoulder.

"Selene, do you want to see him now?"

_They wouldn't let me see a body._

"Oh." Slowly, struggling to find his feet, to find his voice, Selene shook himself, sure that the nightmares finally weren't real. "Oh. He's—"

"He's alive. Not awake, you understand, but for the moment, stable."

"Please—"

* * *

Commander Hayden stared at the huddled figure in the brig, teeth clenched, disappointment heavy in his gut. He'd been wrong, of course, before, but never so wrong about a Fighter. Not like this. Not like almost losing—

It was possible to take it out on Encke, Keeler, waiting for him in his office, anxious. They should have sensed the trouble, should have intervened, but they were human—as was he—and Fighters were, after all, a violent, volatile breed. No—the head Fighter/Navigator team wouldn't pay the price for this. Loki, such as he was called—who'd nearly cost their best Fighter his life—oh, yes, _he'd_ be the one—

And Sigyn would have to be reassigned, of course . . .

What it meant for Selene and Helios? He didn't know. The Navigator wouldn't be worth a lick to them without the Fighter, anyhow, and Helios—

Wearily he realized that the _Kepler_ would have to make another unplanned stop, again, at some Alliance base, to drop Loki off for a court martial; for Helios; for picking up Sigyn's replacement Fighter. All that—and he wondered why it stirred him up to restlessness, being so far away from the border, so far from the enemy, the Colterons, the things that could be sought and fought and killed.

* * *

Selene settled himself at the bedside; the MO had been kind enough to leave a chair. He looked and almost couldn't bear to look at the man in front of him: a bandaged, taped-up, tubed-up and tangled mess, the monitors all singing a soothing song that he was alive. One hand, that nearest to him, wasn't encased in a cast or wrapped in gauze: an IV needle poked out, slithering its tongue up to a drip somewhere, but he could touch the skin, the broken veins, the valleys and the knuckle-bones.

"Oh God. Afon."

The face was bruised, was swollen, almost beyond recognition—but it was still—

Selene reached up to gently, gently, touch a cheek, the lightest brushing of his fingers, before rising to his feet. "He said I shouldn't stay," he whispered, "not so long tonight. But tomorrow, Afon, first thing if I can, I'll be here, love."

A kiss then, too, to the warm, warm forehead, just between the eyes.

* * *

Selene turned around the room, staring, staring at the desk where his Afon sat—sometimes—but not so often now. The side of the closet he once claimed as his (which they'd since let slide). The bunk.

Heat crept into his cheeks as he remembered perhaps the most awkward and pivotal moment of his life: "Do you want top or bottom?"

Ah, yes, of the bunks.

How Afon had laughed.

And how it didn't matter: Selene hadn't crawled up the ladder for what seemed like a long, long time: months, perhaps it only was, but in something like this—in a war against the Colterons—or on a ship where a fight could lead to _this—_ that was long indeed.

The bunks were never meant for two, but God, it felt large now: felt wide: felt empty. Selene had shucked his uniform and crawled between the covers, naked, too tired and too lucid all at once to care. For a moment he tried pressing himself against the wall, but no, no that just emphasized his Afon's absence—

The pillow, though, smelled very strongly of the Fighter. Selene, clenching his teeth over a cry, let the tears slip down his face as he pressed the paltry thing against his chest.

* * *

But he couldn't sleep.

Hastily he dressed, bringing the Fighter's pillow with him, stumbling through the halls with eyes now dry: the lift carried him to the Med Bay and, again, his feet were more conscious of his whereabouts than his head.

The medical staff on call looked at him with cool, cool eyes: there was compassion in the way she motioned him forward, smiling; the beds were all empty, except _his._

"Shh," she whispered. "Technically you shouldn't be here."

"I . . . know. I just want to . . . I can't sleep. I just want to be with him."

"I know, sweetheart."

_My mothers called me that—but no one since—_

"Go on. You can stay with him tonight. Maybe the MO will come up with something long-term, hm?"

"We're going to a base, aren't we? For—for Helios, at least."

"Likely. He won't be fit for duty for a while."

"I won't leave him . . ."

A warm hand found his own: she didn't know what Hayden would say to that any more than he; they'd be down a Navigator anyhow: without Afon, what good was he?

"I know."

* * *

Selene sat down beside Helios, keeping the pillow in his arms. He lay his head down not as he wanted—not on the Fighter's chest or shoulder—not where there were wounds, were broken bones—but on the bedside, just beside the Fighter's head. Just where he could hear his breathing, slow and steady, like the resounding echoed whispers of an ocean.


End file.
